I May Be Mad
by eclecticdinosaurs
Summary: AU. No one sees who Sherlock is always whispering to, but one thing is for certain, she always whispers back. (Major character death. )
1. I May Be Mad

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"There's blood inside the bathroom as well though," he tilted his head to the side, trying to decipher where the brutal attack began. He motioned with his gloved hand towards the splatter. "Joan come give it a look."

Detective Collins who was working near by turned in confusion.

_Joan?_

He turned around the room looking for the new addition to the team. The newest transfer had been Mendoza.

_Eliza? Paola? Brenda?_

He couldn't recall her name, in truth, he didn't know anyone's name. He always called everyone by their last. All he knew that Mendoza'a first name sure as hell wasn't Joan.

In fact, he was sure that no one in the force went by that name.

Sherlock kept mumbling to himself and to _Joan_. He jumped from the blood pattern to the scraping on the floor. Every so often he would stop dead on his tracks and look to his right, nodding. As if someone was giving him their professional opinion.

"Right, right, of course. You have keen eyes Watson." Sherlock nodded enthusiastically, turning on his heals and heading to Gregson.

Sherlock wooshed past Collins, but that wasn't the reason he shivered. A coldness he'd only experience when he visited the morgue crept throughout his body and made him shiver. He eyed Sherlock as he briefly spoke to Gregson and left.

Gregson walked towards the bathroom and inspected the blood patterns. Collins edged closer. He cleared his throat.

"Yes?" Gregson answered without turning.

Collins hesitated, "Who was he talking to?"

"Sherlock? He was talking to me." Gregson continued unamused.

"I know that sir," Collins continued. "Who was he talking to before? Who's-"

"You mean Joan Watson," Gregson answered, his concentration breaking. He turned to Collins and gave him a calculating look, as if deciding whether he should tell him the rest of the story. Collins stared back, not buckling under the captains hard gaze.

"Joan was a sober companion that his father appointed him," Gregson relented. "She assisted him. It was not too long ago but before you were assigned to us."

Collins continued, his curiosity getting the best of him. "What happened?"

"There was a certain case involving a man named James Moriarty," Gregson looked down. "You might have heard of it on the news."

Collins nodded, if you didn't know who James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran were then you must have been living under a rock. The news of their crimes had traveled the world. Collins had just been granted his transfer to Gregson's team when the great duo had been executed in a huge shootout. Only one person had been killed in his capture.

An ex-surgeon.

"Joan Watson was-"

"Yes." Gregson edged to the bedroom window and peered down with a tired sigh. "The bullet was aimed for Sherlock." He smiled and gave a small laugh. "Not on Watson's watch. She was the most fierce soldier I've ever met and a most loyal friend."

"And he still talks to her…" Collins stopped himself before he uttered the word _ghost_.

Gregson thought for a moment, "I-I don't know how to respond to that actually."

"I guess, he never really let her go." Gregson left and Collins looked out the window. Sherlock's funny coat and plaid scarf stood out in the crowd.

He was talking to a cop and every so often, he'd turn to his right, nodding slightly in agreement.

_"That detective is looking at us."_

Sherlock turned to Joan as he walked across the street, leaving the police officer in mid sentence.

_"He thinks you're crazy."_

"I don't care," he responded with a pout taking longer strides. "Do you think I'm crazy?"

_"I think I should leave now."_ Her response came in a whisper, her perfume wrapped around him. That same perfume he had commented on when she bailed him out of jail after he wrecked her car. The perfume that he'd grown accustomed to and had infiltrated every crevice of his apartment.

The same perfume he had clung to after she was buried and he was left on his own once more.

He stopped walking and snapped his eyes shut.

"Please don't leave me Joan," he whispered. "Don't leave alone or I'll follow you."

_"Don't be stupid."_ She hushed.

He felt his scarf wrap around him warmly, her cool fingers gracing his neck.

_"I'll stay, but don't say that again."_

Sherlock smiled and continued walking. He was selfish and he knew it. Joan was better off leaving him and going on to whatever mystery lied in the afterlife.

But he was selfish and he never did care for what people whispered about him.

_I may be mad, but I'm not alone._


	2. He Never Prayed

"Wake up."

Her voice was more urgent this time. She cursed at her inability to pull him up and berate him for doing something this stupid. She wanted to slap his wrist and then hand him a beer, like she had done countless of times before.

Being a surgeon, her hands had been her most prized tools. Even though her hands where intact, they were unable to do a thing. She peered into the water, not surprised when she didn't see her reflection. Her lips brushed the tips of his ear and she concentrated like never before.

She took a deep breath.

"Sherlock wake up!"

His eyes snapped open and his head emerged from the water. The bathtub began to drain after his heel knocked the improvised bathtub plug. Sherlock coughed up the water he'd swallowed and looked right through Joan Watson's concerned face.

He took in shallow breaths and sunk to the bottom of the tub, his knees poking above the rim. Hugging his chest, he blinked back tears.

"It was meant for me," he whispered. His voice was hoarse from the two months he'd kept silent.

When the shot was fired, Joan pushed him to the ground and he let out a laugh.

"You missed Jim," he goaded underneath her. "What a shame."

Jim kept his twisted smile intact.

Sebastian Moran and James Moriarty were tackled to the ground by an army of policemen armed to the teeth, not willing to take any chances.

Moran's voice rang through the abandoned building as he was handcuffed and dragged outside. "I never miss."

Sherlock looked down, his shirt was splattered with tints of scarlet; the smell of copper invading his nostrils.

"Watson!" He cried. Sherlock cradled her head and used his scarf to wipe off her blood.

"Ambulance!" He called out frantically, but he knew it'd make no difference. The rational part of his brain knew it was too late but the other part, the part he thanked Joan for told him he was obligated to try.

"Don't waste the medics time," Joan said smiling. "You know better."

"You'll be fine, Watson."

She gave a dry laugh and patted his arm. "I'm the surgeon, I know what's happening. I've got major internal bleeding and the bullet-"

"Stop that," he growled. "Stop that right now."

"It's okay Sherlock," she explained patiently. "People die."

"Not you, though. You're different."

She smiled, her eyes taking in every detail. The sirens in the background, the cop jargon flying over their heads. She didn't register any of that.

She took note of Sherlock's labored breath and the little squeaks he made, like a frightened mouse. His soft green eyes darted from her wound to the police men to her face, trying to find a solution. The crease on his forehead was deeper, and he seemed to have aged ten years in those few seconds. He held her gaze and squeezed her hand.

"Don't leave," he pleaded, his eyes filled with anguish. He took her hands in his. "Please don't take her."

Sherlock never pleaded. He never prayed. He didn't care for Gods because he never needed anything from them. But this was different. This was Joan. The only person who put up with his madness and kept him grounded. Joan, who would match him in a game of wits and win fair and square. The one who would tell him off but still forgive him because she knew he was sorry, even if he didn't say it. This was his only friend.

So even though he didn't believe anyone was upstairs listening, he prayed. Because maybe if he prayed hard enough, someone would answer.

But they didn't.

—-

Joan woke up in her bed.

Then she screamed.

"Sherlock! Jesus Christ what are you doing here?!" She scrambled to her feet and leaned on the wall. She pointed to the door. "Go back to your bed, you know you have to ask first. For fucks sake you gave me a heart attack!"

When Sherlock didn't move and her breathing evened out, she looked to her clocks. All of them were unplugged. She shook her head and rolled her eyes.

_Nice try Sherlock._

She reached for the plug and was startled when she couldn't get a hold of it. She tried again. After the fifth try she figured they must have gotten drunk the night before and was still a little buzzed, which would explain why she couldn't remember anything, and Sherlock was passed out on her bed.

_Odd._ She thought. _I don't have a hangover._

She rounded the bed and sat next to Sherlock. Wondering why he had taken to sleeping on her side of the mattress. The only times he stayed in her bed was when he talked her into watching crap TV or late night movies he rented. He'd disappear into the kitchen and march into her room, popcorn in hand and a DVD in the other. She groaned and moaned about it but she'd let him settle in her bed and watch whatever film he wanted.

"So we're having a slumber party?" She asked the first time he brought a movie.

"Yes! Except we don't do each other's hair." He exclaimed excited while the previews started, "We just watch movies and eat junk food."

The alarm had woken her the next morning and she was pleased to see that Sherlock was still fast asleep. She suppressed a laugh when she saw him hugging the bowl of popcorn. She pulled the bowl with the few remaining kernels rattling inside from his iron grasp and instead of her morning jog, she decided to sleep-in instead.

She examined the floor.

_Nope. No popcorn. Must've gone drinking then._

It wasn't until she examined Sherlock's face that she noticed the tear marks on his cheeks and the blood stains on his shirt. At the feet of the bed lay his blood soaked scarf and that's when she understood.

"Oh," she remarked with surprise. "I'm dead."


End file.
